Ashes
by Skeva
Summary: A tiny spark could never destroy the Capitol. In fact, they'd proven just how much Katniss was completely at their mercy. Alternate ending of 'Catching Fire'.


_**Author's Note**_

_An alternate ending for 'Catching Fire'. Originally a school project, so just know there's a graded copy of this somewhere . . . enjoy!_

* * *

**CATCHING ****FIRE**

Alternate Ending

(Continued from Chapter 27)

Everything seems to erupt at once. The earth explodes into showers of dirt and plant matter. Trees burst into flames. Even the sky fills with brightly colored blossoms of light. I can't think of why the sky's being bombed until I realize the Gamemakers are shooting off fireworks up there, while the real destruction occurs on the ground. Just in case it's not enough fun watching obliteration of the arena and the remaining tributes. Or perhaps illuminate our gory ends.

Will they let us survive? Will there be a victor of the Seventy-fifth Hunger Games? Maybe not. After all, this is the Quarter Quell but . . . what was it President Snow read from the card?

"_. . . a reminder to the rebels that even the strongest among them cannot overcome the power of the Capitol . . ."_

Not even the strongest of the strong will triumph. Perhaps they never intended to have a victor in these Games at all. But surely, wasn't there supposed to be a winner; like they said before, a winner among winners? I find a twisted humor to my last thought of hope.

This was how they would destroy us. It seems almost like an obvious act, ending us, thinking back to the start of this Hunger Games. Even before the start of it. The enemy . . . there was always an advantage for them. We couldn't ever win.

I lose my ability to see, either the explosions or the trauma my body was going through blinding them, as well as my sense of touch. It's impossible to move. If it weren't for the ongoing blasts I hear, I would almost consider myself . . . dead.

_Peeta . . . I'm sorry. _

He was probably dead already. I couldn't imagine him being otherwise in these conditions, the conditions I had caused through my stupidity. I don't realize my ears stop collecting sound until nausea churns in my stomach and my thoughts go completely blank.

Hovercraft wings awaken my numb form, but I'm grateful for my sight to return, even just to stare dumbfounded at a bare grey ceiling. My thoughts are still blurred; I don't know who I am. I catch images in my brain of a city, watches, forests . . . and a husband.

I couldn't be married, could I?

I pressure my mind into fighting through the fog, to tell me more about myself, but it surrenders once again and I'm overcome by darkness.

When I swim back into semi-consciousness I immediately flinch at the tremendous pain, suddenly soaring through my body. I don't even want to move, not without the anesthetics I must've had before.

Memories return clearer now, though, and I abandon the idea of having to move. I was sentenced to two visits to the arena, the Hunger Games. I . . . survived, must've survived the second, too. I fought with bow and arrows . . . shot an arrow in a . . . a chink in the armor, I remember it being called. I wanted to save . . . _Peeta!_

My brain goes into an automatic panic mode, the possibilities of where he and I were creating deadly assumptions of what was going on. Is he dead? He couldn't be, not if I was saved. He should've been saved to . . . right?

I force myself to lift my head, though it was quite difficult to ignore the sting jolting over every engaged muscle. I surrender and lower my stiff neck, allowing my head to rest uncomfortably back on the pillow. How long could I have been here? A noise from my left shocks me terribly, making my body flinch automatically in response. From the corner of my eye I see a woman, dressed completely in a stunning white, approach my damaged form. The needle she held hurt twenty times more than I believe it should have. I fail to stay awake.

The third time my eyes drift open my dry mouth attempts at a hoarse scream. I don't want to be here anymore, I want Peeta. I want my mother . . . Gale. I want to be with Prim and Butterscotch, even with the kindhearted cook that might've been my father-in-law. Why was I here?

My neck tries again to lift, so I could look at myself, at my surroundings. To my surprise it comes easily. My arms show no sign that any harm had been inflicted upon them, save for the large, save un-healed scar on my wrist, still bloody from where it had been cut open, I trace the marking, flinching, before casting my eyes for further examination. My legs are clean, shaven and all, and as I feel my face I could tell it'd been scrubbed clean just a while ago.

My brain is a mess of puzzle pieces, hopeless of finding the right place for anything. _Where am I? Gosh, where am I!?_

I grip sternly at the bed sheets, preparing to depart from rest. Nausea ripples through me as I sit upright, my legs dangling. My throat closes and I feel as if I want to throw up, but I swallow, promising myself to find out what's going on before doing something that will force me back to bed rest.

The floors are cold beneath my bare feet, but I waddle towards the door, all my weight on the handle as I push it open.

Brightness blinds me, my eyes are slow to adjust. Glass windows adorn a pasty grey wall, but still showing the ability to shine. The sky is a light blue, I could tell it's still around morning. My legs walk drowsily, knocking into walls and tripping over the smooth, glossy floors, polished to the maximum. I wondered where I was-

"Katniss! What a pleasure to see you're awake."

My body froze in horror as I'd recognized the voice. I refused to turn.

"Katniss?"

I fought the urge to scream, to run, I fought it so much. My eyes darted from left to right, wanting out of the situation. He would leave if I didn't answer, right? Footsteps approached from behind me, echoing in the long, bright hallway. The sky didn't seem so peaceful any more.

A hand grasped my shoulder.

I spun wildly, catching him by surprise. "Where's Peeta!?" My eyes were watering and involuntarily leaking out salty liquid. My hospital gown probably made me look like a mental patient on the loose, but only Peeta crossed my mind. "Please . . . where is he?"

The Head Gamemaker of the Quarter Quall stood aghast, mouth agape. Did he know? My fists clenched angrily.

"Katniss, lower your fists, you're alright. I . . . I don't know what to say. Allow me to . . . allow me to talk to President Snow for further instruction. I'll have security take you back to your room, alright?"

"No, it's not alright." My breathing hastened, and my mind went woozy. I had the feeling that another step out of control and I'd have the ability to kill this man.

Kill. It not like it was foreign to me.

Plutarch Heavensbee gives out a long sigh before taking me by the arm and down the long hallway. Seeming as though he'd given up, he opens the door to another room. I could only hear the exasperated whisper of him telling me to get dressed. He closes the door for me.

Outfits hung from metal hangars, all beautiful, and I take a look around. Several long, white dresses, others in beautiful lace designs. Jumpsuits, shirts, tube tops - I couldn't even name some of the wondrous things dangling in this room.

But déjà vu sweeps in and a name does make its way into mind. Cinna.

My knees go weak as I remember what'd happened to him. Beaten, taken away as a pulp. Before my eyes before the games started. These . . . all of these . . . were his handiwork.

My dress I wore before volunteering for the first Hunger Games drapes in the center of it all, reminding me so much of home. A mockingjay pin still lingering on the front. I pick it up and put it on, sliding on the pair of shoes lying beneath it. I feel sick.

Knocking on the door for Plutarch to let me out, I ask in a shaky voice, "Where's Cinna?"

He doesn't give me so much of a glance as he takes my arm and leads me down the never ending hallway.

Plutarch lets go after about 3 minutes of speed-walking, gesturing me towards a room with a slightly larger door. He gives somewhat of a pitiful smile. "All your questions will be answered in there. It's alright, Katniss. I'll be out here the entire time."

I give a gulp. Although his words were supposed to comfort me they only bring me fear. Entering the heavy iron doors, I look around until my eyes meet with cold, unforgiving ones. I see now what there was to be afraid of. I walk over, eyeing the two security guards that stood at both his sides. He must've known I had almost attacked Heavensbee.

"Please, Katniss, take a seat."

I oblige.

"Now today I . . . we have some important information that we need to discuss. You may be wondering why you're here, what has become of the 75th Hunger Games, and any other questions that are hanging at the tip of your tongue. Before I explain, are there any other question's you'd like to ask?" His tone was deep and dangerous, I swallowed, but still spoke up.

"Where's Peeta?"

"Peeta isn't here right now."

"Where's Cinna?"

He frowned, seeing the focus of the questions being brought up. The words slipped like butter off his tongue, however, his eyes menacing as a snake. "Cinna has been executed."

My eyes shoot up, anger filling them from the inside-out. "What? Why!?"

"For defying the Capitol. Katniss, seeing how this is all you wish to ask me, I'm going to explain the situation to you now. You're to listen."

I nod, dumbstruck. All fight in me has been replaced with fear.

"You have won the 75th Annual Hunger Games. Congratulations." He sits patiently, smug, waiting for my reaction to kick in. My fingers twitch and I wait for him to go on. To win . . . everyone else had to die. I need to confirm it. He continues. "You blew up the arena with your arrows and the barrier. Everything exploded, and while everyone else slowly died, you were surviving. When the last of the two died, we exported you from the arena before you were further hurt. You put on a good show, though, Katniss. I thank you sincerely."

The room drops hundreds of degrees as I break out into a shaking fit. Everyone in the arena . . . everyone I had known . . . I was the last of them. "So where's Peeta?" Rage is dripping from every word in my voice.

"Peeta is dead."

I scream, lunging for him. Peeta . . . is dead. Why? _Peeta!_ The boy I was to marry, the boy I'd sworn to protect . . . was gone. "Tranquilize her!" screams one of the guards.

My eyes flutter close.

When I awaken for the fourth time, I'm in the same outfit, my pin still at my chest. My eyes water and I slowly become aware of the tears leaking from my eyes. He died. Because I set off the explosion. I swore to protect him, and I . . . was the one who'd killed him.

I'm not in the polished hospital room this time, but what seems to be the normal room for a Capitol teenager. Greens and purples were carefully painted on the walls, holograms as remote controls. A whole window filled the back wall, illuminating the night sky. A television is set up to my right, and reluctantly I flip it on.

"_The devastation throughout the districts have been increased ever since the District 12 Rebellion. Increased security have been ordered to . . ." _The voice slowly made its way out of my mind as I take in the few words Ceaser had said, his neon green hair bobbing as he went on with his news report. There had been a rebellion? I'm in shock. More tragic news piles up on me as the screen displays videos on the actual attack in District 12, children screaming and men holding weapons in protection against the thousands of Peacekeepers literally falling out of the sky. The bloodshed makes me tremble and I tune back into the world again only to hear the horrible words. _"There were no survivors."_

I finally understand why I'd been chosen to stay alive. I was the signal of rebellion, the last chance at hope. Struck by the thumb of the Capitol. I imagine being in one of the other rebelling districts, hearing of my terrible fate. The girl on fire, forced to participate twice in the deadly games, her lover killed . . . her home destroyed.

I finally understand.

The rebellion was over now, even though I had gotten out of my death sentence alive. It was decided after I'd placed a foot off the starting point in the arena, diving into the salty waters. They'd crushed me . . . and instead of being a symbol of rebellion I am a symbol of what would become of it. No one would defy the capitol after me.

A knock is heard from the door and I slowly nod, not caring if the person couldn't actually hear me. A moment of silence. I look up when the door finally opens, despite whatever answer I may have given, and I'm met face to face with Plutarch Heavensbee once again. I wait for him to talk.

"Miss Everdeen, some good news. With your cooperation, you'll be staying at the Capitol from now on, a victor's house specially made for you already there. You'll be a celebrity!"

I distantly gesture him an 'okay' before he got the message and quietly closed the door. No matter what I was in the Capitol, everyone must've known . . .

My stormy eyes are dry of tears, stinging as I blinked. I run my hands over all the goosebumps cluttering on my arms.

All that remained of the Girl on Fire was her emotionless shell imprisoned in the capitol.

The fire was dead.


End file.
